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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056236">Enjolras’s Truly Terrible No Good Rotten Downright Dreadful Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait'>PieceOfCait</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, meet cute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:02:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras glances over to the suit he’d laid out yesterday in a moment of forethought. It’s a crisp light grey with a dull red dress shirt. Professional. His tricolour underwear, not so much. But one can’t be picky when it comes to lucky undies.<br/>Not on a day like today.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Same-Prompt Fic Challenge</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Enjolras’s Truly Terrible No Good Rotten Downright Dreadful Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Shout out to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade">Shitpostingfromthebarricade</a> for beta reading this for me like, so many moons ago &lt;3</p><p>Please check end notes for content warnings.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>It should be illegal,</i> Enjolras thinks to himself as blinks awake, <i>to start a lawnmower before 6:30am on a Tuesday.</i></p><p>Groaning heartily into his pillow, he rolls onto his back and stretches hard enough to feel his neck twinge. The small, steady thrum of nervous energy he’d fallen asleep with renews its stomach-twisting as he contemplates his to-do list for the day.</p><p>Enjolras glances over to the suit he’d laid out yesterday in a moment of forethought. It’s a crisp light grey with a dull red dress shirt. Professional. His tricolour underwear, not so much. But one can’t be picky when it comes to lucky undies. Not on a day like today.</p><p>Frowning, he realises that he hadn’t picked out a tie. As he sits up to do so he blinks rapidly, sunlight streaming in under the blinds and causing his eyes to water in protest. Rubbing at them, he rolls out of bed as his east-facing window quickly joins his neighbour on the top ten list of Things Pushing Their Fucking Luck This Morning.</p><p>It isn’t until he’s blearily digging through his modest tie collection that it hits him. Throwing black silk in the general direction of his pre-picked outfit, Enjolras staggers to the window, yanks the blind aside and stares out into the much-too-busy street just in time to see a school bus pull up a few houses down.</p><p>What the fuck.</p><p>Kicking his toe on the bedside table in his haste to retrieve his phone, Enjolras feels his nerves quadruple as the screen happily declares it to be 8:03am.</p><p>Again, <i>what the fuck.</i></p><p>“Ferre??” he yells, which - considering the age of the children outside - is the best case scenario for one-syllabled f-words.</p><p>Tripping in his oversized socks, Enjolras flies out of his room. </p><p>“Courf??”</p><p>Neither answer. Which is to be expected, as they both left for their jobs <i>an hour ago.</i></p><p>The clock on the microwave confirms that his phone hasn’t defaulted to an alternate timezone, just as his reflection in the door of it confirms that a shower is non-negotiable.</p><p>Cursing, Enjolras flies back down the hallway to the bathroom, stripping as he goes.</p><p>He stays under the spray for exactly long enough to determine the hot water is definitely out and not just taking its time. His teeth chatter as he speed-brushes them, forgoing flossing altogether.</p><p>He dresses in record time - khaki shorts and an old faded Occupy tee - swearing as he meticulously folds his suit, gently cramming it into his backpack. Pocketing his phone, he fastens his watch before racing down the stairs and out of the building.</p><p><i>Saint-Just</i> - his faithful bicycle – has a flat. A flat of un-peddleable proportions. Enjolras curses every deity he can name off the top of his head as he checks his watch. It’s 8:15. He’s got time. Barely. He fumbles the zip of his backpack and retrieves his pump.</p><p>Pedalling feels good after the morning he’s had. Thankful for somewhere to channel his nervous energy, he hardly notices that he’s two gears above his usual.</p><p>Just as he’s about to double down on his efforts he hits a patch of unmarked wet concrete. Saint-Just slows to an almost instant halt and Enjolras barely manages to keep himself upright.</p><p>“What is my life?” he groans, pulling his bike out of the cement and ruining his shoes in the process.</p><p>Trying the pedals, he finds that the chain still works. He barely suppresses a fist-pump before resuming his ride, mentally composing a letter to the local council regarding appropriate signage as he crests the hill.</p><p>It’s one of his favourite paths to cycle – a long steady descent on a mostly non-broken block. He pedals hard, standing to add extra speed in a desperate attempt to make up for lost time.</p><p>At the halfway point he glances up to check the nearing traffic light. It goes from red to green and he grins, knowing he’ll make it in easy time.</p><p>Rather unfortunately, the impatient cab driver idling at the corresponding red light doesn’t see him coming.</p><p>“Oh fuck-“ Enjolras manages before colliding with the side of the crawling car. He flips over his handlebars and rolls across the cab’s bonnet, landing in a crumpled heap the next lane over.</p><p>He takes a moment to check in on the parts of him that are hurting, which is most of them. He’s still trying to work up the courage to open his eyes and visually assess the damage when hesitant hands land on his back.</p><p>“Easy, my dude,” says a voice that probably belongs to the sneakers Enjolras is now squinting at. “Dumb question, but are you alright?”</p><p>It takes some effort, but Enjolras manages to sit himself up to the sound of horns blaring. Apparently the light has turned green.</p><p>Face burning at his need for assistance he cautiously nods, keeping his eyes on the asphalt as he tries to wrap his mouth around the words ‘I’m fine’, but only managing an embarrassing squeak. His gaze drifts to the cab only to find it has fled the scene, crumpling his bike’s back tyre in the process.</p><p>“Saint-Just,” he hears himself whine as he is helped to his feet.</p><p>There’s a huff of a laugh as the hand on his shoulder moves to wrap around his upper arm and he’s led off the road. Enjolras looks up at the helpful stranger only to find a blurry brunet figure.</p><p>He blinks, then blinks again. He doesn’t recall hitting his head, but his left eye is a little blurry. Rubbing at it clears his vision just enough to realise that there’s now blood on his fingers.</p><p>“You should probably get to the hospital,” the voice is saying, though the words are hard to process over the sudden ringing in Enjolras’s ears.</p><p>He rubs at his eye again, and yep. Definitely actively bleeding from somewhere in that vicinity. With a shaky-but-determined breath, he glances down to assess the other aches making themselves known as the initial shock slightly subdues.</p><p>His knees seem to have taken the brunt of the impact - a steady dribble of blood runs down both shins. His elbows haven’t fared much better. There’s a tear in his shirt and he has the corresponding graze on his hip to match. His palms are scraped. There’s a crack in the face of his watch. </p><p>“I’ve got-“ he mumbles, trying to force down the rising panic. “I’ll be late-“</p><p>The panic wins. Enjolras sways on his feet and the brunet manages to catch him by the shoulders as his knees give out.</p><p>“There we go,” the guy says as he sits Enjolras down on the sidewalk.</p><p>“Sorry.” Enjolras laughs, a little manic, “It’s- I- <i>blood.”</i></p><p>He takes a few steadying breaths as the stranger sits down next to him. “Do you wanna call someone? Or-?”</p><p>“Yes!” Enjolras shouts much louder than he’d intended. Digging into his pocket for his phone, he pulls it out in three pieces. “Oh, this has got to be a bad joke.”</p><p>“Holy shit,” the other man does a poor job of suppressing his laugh. “You broke a <i>Nokia?</i> How hard did you hit that cab?”</p><p>Enjolras groans, ribs lightly protesting.</p><p>“You can use my phone,” offers the stranger, pulling a beat-up iPhone from his own pocket.</p><p>“I don’t know anyone’s number,” Enjolras admits. He can already hear Combeferre’s <i>‘I told you so’.<i></i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yeah, I’m crap with numbers too.” The man taps out the passcode. “Just log into Facebook, you can call through messenger.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I, uh.” Enjolras stares at the blue screen and feels his ears start to burn. “I don’t have a Facebook.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Really?” The guy blinks twice, grin twisting. “In this economy? I didn’t know you could do that. Come on then.” Pocketing his phone, he stands and extends a hand.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Huh?” Enjolras winces, both at how his knees protest and at how clammy his palm feels in the brunet’s firm grip.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“We’re taking you to the hospital.” Blue eyes flick to Enjolras’s forehead.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>A hands on his watch gives Enjolras pause. It’s 8:47. “I really don’t have time to waste in a waiting room toda-“</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“My dude. My man. My guy.” A level gaze is sent his way. “You have a literal head wound. I’ll feel like a real asshat when I catch a news story later about a beat-up blond succumbing to concussion on the subway.”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>The knowledge that, if roles were reversed, Enjolras would be just as persistent does weaken his protests a touch. Still, he’s already painfully behind schedule. “I-“</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“I know a guy,” the stranger persists, eyebrows bordering on pleading. “We’ll be fast. Please?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>Enjolras has always prided himself on never backing down. He’d stood against mandatory nap time in kindergarten and hadn’t stopped arguing since. But the puppy dog eyes that accompany the request do him in. Well, that and the fact he can <i>see</i> blood trickling down the bridge of his nose.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Okay,” he concedes, pressing a hand to the wound on his forehead to try stem the bleeding. The brunet beams. “Where’s the nearest station?”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“We don’t need one,” the guy grins over his shoulder as he drags Saint-Just to the safety of a nearby lamp post. “We’ve got Ziggy.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I apologise profusely for all the questions that you probably have at this point.<br/>This is actually one of the earliest Les Mis fics I ever started to properly flesh out, and Chapter One has been pretty much all written and sitting in my Google Drive for like 1.5 years now.<br/>I've been scrambling to write anything lately and I didn't want to miss out on the Same Prompt Fic Challenge this year, so with some minor tweaks I managed to work the quote in and now here I am, nervously committing to writing out the rest of this fic in the near future if there's much interest!<br/>If you're really dying to find out more without having to hold out for my slow typing, I could maybe be persuaded to reveal bits and pieces over at my <a href="https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/">tumblr.</a><br/><br/>CW for: car vs pedestrian incident, injuries/blood (nothing graphically detailed)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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